Life's Blood, Soul's Essence
by chicadoodle
Summary: While wandering the halls of Hogwarts, Severus Snape stumbles upon a student having a mental breakdown in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, inflicting serious wounds upon himself. A boy named Harry Potter. Being Rewritten.
1. The End of Something Precious

Chicadoodle

Life's Blood, Soul's Essence

Chapter One (The End of Something Precious)

Author's Note : I've decided to rewrite this story. I like where I was going with it, but the writing was just terrible! And I certainly didn't put a lot of thought into how I worded things. It felt rather rushed, as well. As such, I am re-writing the story itself. Chapters will be longer, which will also mean updates won't come as quickly as they used to. Considering how long it's been since this story has been updated, however, I suppose it will feel like lightning speed!

This chapter is 4 pages long, single-spaced, written at size 10 Time New Roman font. Enjoy!

The scars ran up and down a pale back - angry red lines that tugged at the memories of a young boy who had seen the harsh end of a belt perhaps one too many times. The man that boy had become pushed the memories to the back of his mind, to that dark corner that held all his childish fears and regrets, staring down at the form huddled on the floor.

School robes were polled around the feet of the hunched figure, but that wasn't so surprising; this was Hogwarts, after all, and a lack of school robes would have been far more surprising than their appearance here. No, what surprised him was not that the child was a student, but rather who said child was.

He had never imagined Harry Potter to be a coward, nor that he would take the 'easy way out'. The boy was self-righteous, convinced of his own superiority, and a hypocrite - just like his father. This image had lasted Severus Snape several years of teaching the boy, and he had never before been proven wrong.

But that didn't change the fact that the boy was a shivering mess on the floor of the girls' lavatory, arms wrapped around himself as he shook under the weight of Merlin-knew-what nightmares come to plague him during the day.

Stepping gingerly around the smear of blood that graced the floor next to the boy, Severus Snape knelt down quietly next to the boy, dark eyes calculating as he took in the stiff set to the shoulders of the young man before him. There was no doubt in his mind that Potter had finally become aware of his presence - though the fact that it had taken him this long was testimony to the boys' lack of survival instinct.

"I know you can hear me, Potter." Startled green eyes rose to meet his own darker orbs, and for just a moment Severus Snape was given a glimpse into his student, unguarded.

What he saw frightened him.

The boy was frightened, and confused. But not of Snape - if anything, a hint of relief that it was Snape who had found him persisted. Who could he have expected that would be worse than his feared potions' master - the most hated teacher in school?

He had his answer a moment later, as the Gryffindor spoke. "Did somebody finally notice I was gone?" There was a bitterness to his words, one that Severus had heard before - falling from his own lips.

He had been a lonely child, and that lack of bonds had followed him into later life. He didn't mind - not now. But as a child, he had often resented those around him for the easy way they formed relationships - romantic or otherwise. But to hear that same bitterness coming from Potter's lips - it was strange.

And it didn't fit.

He was about to tell Potter so, before the boy cut him off with a sharp laugh. "Do you really think they notice? That they care? Dumbledore told them to watch me - told them I needed friends. I suppose I should thank him - at least I'm not the friend-less freak I am at home."

Potter met his eyes head on, and once again Snape was taken back, only this time by the sudden fierceness that had entered their green depths - a ferocity that had nothing to do with the heat of battle.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" So he tried another tactic, unsure what to make of the boys' strange behavior, and so moving into familiar ground - safe territory ... he the teacher, the authority figure, the one with power over his young companion.

The reminder seemed to shock Potter into some kind of awareness, for he attempted to shove past the older man with the familiar bravado of a Gryffindor.

This, he could handle. This was familiar ground.

Fingers tangling in the collar of the teenager's robes, Snape hauled him to his feet, dark eyes narrowing as he surveyed the rumpled form before him. The boy was pale - too pale for his normally tanned and rugged appearance. The pleasing features of the Gryffindor boy-hero were replaced with tired eyes and frown lines, a face that appeared too old for the young body in which it was situated.

The struggles were instantaneous, as Snape had known they would be - the boy squirming in his grasp, looking for any way out. One hand wrapped around his wrist, nails digging in through the cloth of his own dark robes, and Snape sneered down at the slight form.

"Let. Me. Go." The words were carefully pronounced, and Potter glared up with a shadow of his old defiance, but even that was a pale reflection of his usual bravado.

When it became clear that the boy would say no more - though thankfully his struggled had ceased - Snape let his eyes wander once again over the boys' form - and the evidence of his earlier activities upon the floor of the girls' lavatory.

The blood smeared on the floor was the boys' own - evidence enough of that on the boys' forehead, where blood was splashed across his inflamed scar. More blood and bits of skin from that same forehead lingered under the boys' fingernails, and from the jagged edges of torn skin he could only assume the teenager had been the one to inflict damage on his own scar.

He had seen it before, in those who had second thoughts after joining with Voldemort - those who thought that if they could only remove his Mark, they would be rid of his influence. He knew better, and had seen too many succumb to their own pain. he had called them weak, at first, until the temptation to go out that same way had risen in him.

It wasn't so different, he supposed - that cursed scar and the mark he bore on his own arm. They were both marks left by the Dark Lord, marks that tied the individual to him in more ways than one.

"Don't. Just ... don't." There was a desperation to the younger voice now, and Snape tore his eyes away from the blood-stained floor to meet jade-green eyes. "Don't go there."

"Ignoring it won't make it go away." When had they changed the topic, when had he stopped sneering at the boy and started looking at him with sympathy? Potter must have found the change of topic just as unnerving as he, for the boy tore his eyes away from those of his professor, instead staring at a pint just beyond his left shoulder. When it became apparent that the boy would keep his silence once again, Snape sighed heavily before releasing his grip on the boys' robes.

"You should be at the Welcoming Feast." The reprimand came easily, as one he had given on more than one occasion to his Slytherins. They were, perhaps, the most likely of all the Houses to skip such celebrations, to sequester themselves away in the Dungeons in preperation for the coming school year ... particularly the younger years'. those second and third year students caught between missing their parents' and beginning to take part in the world as adults.

"Why?" Potter met his eyes once again, a soft laugh escaping his lips. It was not particularly elegant or cultured, but neither was the sound as uncouth as Snape had been expecting. "Because people will notice? Their precious savior not there to bask in the light of his popularity?"

It was the sort of comment he himself might have made, and Snape was taken back hearing the words falling from the lips of the subject of scrutiny himself. "Don't insult my intelligence, Snape. Nobody will really care. And I have neither the time nor the inclination to care what they think."

If there was one thing that Harry Potter prided himself on, it was that he was a good person. Perhaps he had his faults, but then so did everybody else. But he, unlike many others, did what he could to make those around him happy. It was a cliche, perhaps, but the truth. Perhaps it made him like his mother, like Sirius said. There were far worse people to be like.

But tonight, he just couldn't bring himself to care. Not with everything that had happened, not with everything he had to look forward to in the immediate future. He just wanted Snape to _leave him alone_.

He hadn't been raised to be rude - Petunia had managed that, if nothing else. But going against what he had been taught had always been a sure way to be left alone - if perhaps with a few more bruises. Yet the old method wasn't working with Snape, and he wasn't sure why.

"Taking the easy way out, Potter?" Snape quirked a brow down at him, and Harry grit his teeth as he strained his neck to stare up at the man towering over him. His collar was still stretched taut, biting into his neck, as he was forced to lean toward the man lest he be pulled that way by the strength of the taller man's arms.

Damn potions freak was stronger than he looked.

"Maybe I've just stopped caring." There was a bitterness to his tone that he wished he could take back, particularly when Snape's fingers loosened on his collar and he was allowed to lean back into a more comfortable position. Long fingers - for once not stained with potions ingredients - moved around to rest almost comfortably against the back of his neck, as the older man stared down at him with a strange look in his eyes.

What must he have looked like? Blood smeared across his face, the evidence of his self-inflicted damage on his hands. The sting of sweat in his eyes let him know just how disheveled he really was, even before Snape had handled him around.

"Nobody just stops caring, Potter."

At some point the similarities with his Slytherins had finally hit him, and now as Snape spoke, he spoke as though he were speaking to one of them. It was easier that way - but staring intot hose brilliant green eyes was still difficult.

Potter glanced away, and Snape stared down at the mop of unruly black hair with a deep frown. One hand still placed gently against the back of the boys' neck, he urged the younger man toward the door. "Come on."

The boy was isntantly resistive, planting his feet firmly against the floor and refusing to budge. Seeing this, Snape bit back a sigh. "Potter, you don't even know where we're going." This was said with a bit of exasperation, though he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corners of his lips.

"You're not taking me to the Headmaster?" There was a fear in those words Snape wasn't expecting, and he paused to turn his head, staring quizzicly into the frightened eyes of his student.

"Not if you don't want me to." He finally spoke after a slight pause, during which Potter seemed to work himself up into quite a state. The consummate Gryffindor, _not_ wanting to go running to Headmaster Dumbledore with the smallest of problems? Perhaps they weren't as close as he had thought.

Or perhaps Potter wasn't the consummate Gryffindor he had always assumed the boy to be.


	2. The Start of Something New

Chicadoodle

Life's Blood, Soul's Essence

Chapter Two (The Start of Something New)

As they moved through the halls of Hogwarts, heading deeper and deeper into the dungeons, Harry couldn't help the small shiver that ran through his body. He hadn't eaten in nearly 48 hours, and over that time he had lost a great deal of blood - some from self-inflicted wounds, others from his uncle's wrath. Even before that, he had not really recovered from an attack in the woods - an attack whose scars would never really leave him.

He didn't want to think about that attack, wanted to simply pretend it had never happened. He had done rather well in the time since then, and had even managed to deflect his aunts' questions about the sorry state of the clothes he had been wearing that night.

But Snape was another matter altogether.

Before he was aware what was happening, he was being pushed into a room lit only by a fire on the far side, the door swinging shut behind them. Had Snape spoken a password? Pressed some key spot? He honestly couldn't remember, and he silently berated himself for that.

Childish fears aside, though, he really didn't think the man wold hurt him. The part of him that was still a frightened child watched the older man with more than a bit of trepidition, but a larger part of his mind was taken over by logic - a logic that had been nurtured more than a bit by Hermione. Snape wouldn't hurt him - not with how many times he had already saved his life. Even as he told himself that, however, there was a part of him that didn't believe it.

Part of that was the reputation of Slytherins - sneaky, conniving bastards who would do anything to get ahead in life. The Mark on his arm didn't help matters - the constant reminder that the man could be bought, had hurt people for no other reason than because he had been told to. What bribery had Voldemort used to win Snape over?

And just how long had it taken for Snape to realize it was all a lie?

As he led the boy to a low, leather couch before the fire, Snape couldn't help but notice how unresponsive the boy had been up until now. Their new surroundings seemed to have perked the boy up a bit, brilliant green eyes snapping back and forth, flickering over to Snape every once in a while before being quickly averted.

After all these years, he had grown accustomed to the distrust he saw in people's eyes. His Slytherins gew to trust him over time, but even they came to him with reserve at first, unsure where his true loyalties laid. He was the consummate Slytherin - careful, methodical, ready to survive no matter the cost. And they knew that.

Once the boy was settled before the fire, Snape rubbed a hand across his chin, frowning as he eyed the teenager with a critical eye. He needed to be cleaned up, but he also needed food in him.

It was easier this way, thinking of him as one of his Slytherins. More than one had arrived at school, injured from the 'welcoming' arms of their 'family'. It was not so strange an occurrance for him to set them to rights, though only the most extreme of cases did he let into his personal chambers. They were like him, though - proud, unwilling to let the world see them in their weakness. And that included Pomfrey. For all the oaths she had taken, she would still have been compelled to report a suspected case of child abuse - to the Headmaster if nobody else.

And in truth, doing so would have done more harm than good. How many of his students came from affluent, powerful families? And how many of those suspected cases would have been pushed aside, buried under a tide of beaucracy, the children sent back to the very homes that had caused them the injuries in the first place.

And the damage wasn't always obvious - wasn't always physical. Sometimes it was - more than once a Slytherin child had come to him with injuries - bruises and burns inflicted by those they called their families. Other times, their ailments were more emotional, however ... and he did what he could. But even then, it was hard. He had never been the most congenial of people, and it showed through at times.

After all these years of being the Head of Slytherin, however, he had learned to notice the signs; learned to detect those emotional traumas - and when his Snakes were beginning to buckle under the strain.

Potter had passed that point a long time ago.

He had never really watched the boy before - not in this light. Not without the prejudices he had placed upon the boy without ever really _looking_. But now that he did - now that he _really looked_ ...

There was a look of defeat about the boy ... the way his shoulders slumped forward, the way his legs were brought up, arms wrapped around them. A defensive posture, one meant to protect his middle. His eyes were downcast, none of his usual curiosity showing through. He didn't seem to care where he was, as if he understood he had no choice in the matter ... so why fight?

Somehow, Severus had always thought he would fight, whether he needed to or not. Expected he would demand to know where he was, what was going to happen to him. But he did none of that; simply stared down at his shoes, propped up on the edge of the couch.

As he retreated to the small kitchenette that took up one small corner of his rooms, Severus found his gaze returning time and again to the boy - the _young man_ - as he set about warming up a pot of tea.

By the time the tea was done, Potter had wandered into the kitchen to stare at him with hooded green eyes - eyes that were far too similar to his mothers' ... Especially in such familiar settings as his personal rooms.

Pushing the flood of memories that thought evoked to the back of his mind, Severus stepped back and allowed the boy to prepare his own tea, taking a sip from his own cup as he silently watched the boy. Potter handled himself well in the kitchen, with the familiarity of one who had spent a good deal of time in it. But that was no surprise - the boy had been raised in a _muggle_ household, after all.

Severus barely kept the sneer of his face at that thought, dark eyes following his young companion's movements as Potter slowly moved to mirror his position, taking a slow sip of his own tea. The boy had barely added anything to it, Severus noted in surprise, whereas he had added copious amounts of sugar to his own tea, hoping to mask the natural bitterness.

He was uncomfortable; it was clear in every line of the boys posture. Granted, he highly doubted the boy had taken classes in etiquette or posture ... such practices were sorely lacking outside the Old Families. _His_ only saving grace had been ihs placement in Slytherin, where such graces were expected, and so cultivated.

The boy was still a mess, though thankfully the blood seemed to have dried before he had deposited the boy on his couch. His hair was a veritable rat's nest, but then it was always messy. This, however, was taking things a bit far.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer." The comment slipped out easily, and Harry had the grace the blush as Snape's dark eyes rose to meet his own from their casual inspection of his form. As one dark eyebrow rose - whether in surprise or astonishment, Harry wasn't quite sure - he shifted uncomfortably.

He had forgotten, for a moment, just where he was - who he was with. Tea had always had a calming effect on him, and the casual surroundings had simply helped to put his mind at ease.

"Finish your tea." There was amusement in the older man's tone, and the teen breathed a small sigh of relief.

As he took a final sip of his tea, Harry set it on the counter behind him, before following the older man back in to the front room. Snape crooked one long, potions stained finger at him, and Harry obediently joined him on the long black leather sofa. It was as comfortable as his first impression of it had been, and he sank into it with relief.

Here, away from the prying eyes of the Hall and the uncaring ones of his 'friends', he felt ashamed of how Snape had found him, embarassed that he had sunk that low. That somebody - _anybody_ - had seem him like that.

"Potter." The sound of his last name drew his attention, and Harry turned uncertain green eyes on the potions professor. "What happened back there?"

There was a calmness, coupled with a lack of hosility, in the man's expression and tone that Harry hadn't been expecting, and it gave him pause.

"I just ... I guess I kinda lost it?" The last was phrased as a question, and Harry offered a weak smile to go along with it. Neither seemed to satisfy the older man, who simply rose one dark eyebrow and continued to watch him with that calculating gaze.

"Why now?" It was a simple question, yet so loaded. People didn't break down like that for no reason - he certainly never had. Harry understood that, but at the same time, something in him balked at the idea of laying out all his secrets to Snape.

"Maybe I just felt like it."

Everything about the boys' posture screamed defiance now, and Severus nearly sighed in exasperation. Instead, he leaned forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees, regarding the teen seriously. "You just _felt_ like it." It was said calmly, with no inflection to give away his thoughts on the matter, and the teen simply watched him guardedly, making no response. "You simply felt like tearing your skin off with your bare fingernails."

Not a question, just a statement, but the boy stiffened nonetheless, as if he had been accused of some heinous crime. "I -"

"Please, don't insult my intelligence, Potter." That seemed to shut the boy up properly, and he leaned back against the couch, looking as though he wanted to disappear into the comfortable leather,

"What happened?"

Potter was silent a moment longer, and Snape was about to snap at the boy - he needed _answers_, for the love of Merlin - when he spoke softly. "Something happened, this summer. I just ... I wasn't handling it very well, I guess."

"Were you attacked?" The alarm was real, genuine, as Severus sat up a bit straighter and stared down at the bowed head of messy hair.

"Not by Death Eaters, no. I don't ... I don't think it was intentional. At least, I don't think I was being targeted like that, you know?" Green eyes rose to meet his, and Severus was shocked at the desperation he could plainly read in thos brilliant green orbs.

"I tried to run. I don't even know what I was - I was so _stupid_, wandering around after dark!" The boy had started to shake again, shoving both his hands through his already messy hair and bending nearly double. Severus rose, alarmed, before dropping to his knees before the teen and gripping his shoulders in two strong, slim hands, giving him a firm shake.

The jolt seemed to shock the boy out of whatever memories had taken hold of him, for startled green eyes rose to meet hism, hands now loose in his raven locks.

"Potter. Who. Attacked. You." Each word was carefully enunciated, and Severus was careful to hold the boys' gaze in his own, only now realizing just how fragile the teen before him really was.

"I - I don't know. They weren't ... It was a full moon." The last was whispered, almost fearfully, and Severus reacted instinctively, pulling back as though he had been burned.

_It was a full moon._

_Author's Note : I don't know if I am making it incorrectly, or if British tea is different from what we get in the supermarket here in America, but I've always found tea to be very bitter. If I am incorrect in this (as far as British tea goes), please let me know!_


	3. Chapter 3

Chicadoodle

Life's Blood, Soul's Essence

Chapter Three (A Shoulder to Lean On)

Some time later, Harry lay curled up on the couch with one arm tucked underneath his head, staring sightlessly at the now dwindling fire. Snape had retreated after his confession, leaving him to his own devices within the man's personal rooms. Perhaps once he would have let his curiosity take him … but not now. He was just too tired, too worn out, and in too much pain.

It hadn't been hard to hide his injuries from his family – perhaps they had even noticed, but not cared enough to ask. He certainly wouldn't put it past them. Had they known … _really_ known what happened, would they even have let him stay?

_Monster. Animal. Less than human._ He'd heard it, of course. Read it, in Defense Against the Dark Arts. But to realize it was to be directed at _him_ … that made all the difference, didn't it?

He didn't think he was a bad person. He honestly didn't. Maybe he wasn't the most obedient, and he certainly wasn't the smartest, but he wasn't a _bad_ person. But somehow, he hadn't really minded the comments about werewolves when they weren't directed at him. Even realizing that somebody he cared about was a werewolf, that they were hated and feared so … he hadn't really thought to care.

But all that was different now. Now that it was him they were afraid of, him they hated.

The sound of the door opening caught his attention, but Harry didn't bother to turn his head, sure of what he would find. Snape's light footfalls drew nearer, but still he didn't bother to look – too frightened of the hatred, perhaps even fear he would find in the older man's expression.

Funny, how he dreaded the thought of Snape's fear, dreaded the thought of his hatred. Hadn't the man always hated him? But this was different.

"Potter." The sound of his surname caught his attention, though, and Harry found himself glancing up obediently. It was a command, and he knew better than to ignore that. _Particularly_ from those that disliked him so.

Snape stood before the fire, staring down at him with an unreadable look in his eyes. "I have informed the Headmaster." A flash of betrayal lanced through him, and something of it must have shown on his face for Snape continued almost immediately. "He had to be informed, Potter. For your safety … for your classmates safety."

Harry bowed his head, accepting the reprimand. He hadn't thought … but it was true. It would be dangerous, wouldn't it? For nobody to know. The Headmaster, at least, had to. Preperations would have to be made …

Locked away like an animal.

"Potter." Snape's voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and Harry glanced up at the dour protions professor, eyes wary. "You can't run from this."

Harry simply nodded, seeming to withdraw even further in to himself, and Severus sighed, before moving to kneel before the teen, hands resting on the boy's knees. "Potter … Harry. Look at me."

The teenager's eyes, which had dropped to his hands, flickered up to meet his, more in surprise at the professor's actions than as a response to any kind of command. "Did you ever see the man who did this to you?" A quick shake of the head, and Severus sighed, bowing his head and casting his gaze to the side.

They were silent for a moment, the two of them, Potter's eyes boring in to the top of his head. Finally, Severus brought his head up to meet the teen's gaze, a small smile on his lips. "We'd better get you settled."

Getting him settled, Harry was soon to discover, did not entail leading him back to Gryffindor Tower. It didn't even entail leaving Snape's quarters. What it _did_ mean, was being led to what appeared to be a small study, where a small cot waited. "Lupin will be here in the morning." Snape's hand was on the small of his back, pushing him forward, and Harry moved to sit on the bed willingly enough. He _was_ exhausted.

"Why?" The question was out before he could stop himself, and he winced, expecting an acidic response of the type Snape was known for. He was surprised, however, when Snape merely gave him a _look_, one dark eyebrow raised.

"He knows what you are going through, Potter. Something like this … you will need that experience."

Harry simply nodded. He was right, of course … But to have anybody else _know_ … He hadn't wanted _anybody_ to know.

"You'll stay here for the night." Snape seemed to pause for a moment, before sweeping out of the room, and Harry sighed as he fell back against the surprisingly comfortable cot.

_Great._

"_This is a disaster, Severus. If the Prophet hears of it ..."_ Those had been the first words Albus Dumbledore spoken to him, and they still rang in the potions professor's ears. Of all the things to worry about, the senile old man had chosen the _Prophet_?

It liked to slander the boy, he knew that – hell, he had even gotten a chuckle or two out of the articles, if only for their absurdity. But it shouldn't have been the Headmaster's _first concern_.

He had tried to make up for it, of course – and his concern had been real enough. _Is he alright? Should I alert Madame Pomfrey?_ Those questions – the ones Severus had been expecting first – had come quickly then, but the damage had already been done.

Did the old man even realize that damage existed? Or did it never even cross his mind? Was he too lost in his own machinations that he had lost sight of the people involved?

Severus remembered a different Albus Dumbledore – one hurt, on the verge of breaking, who had come to visit him in Azkaban. Though he had been imprisoned only a matter of days, to him it had felt like an eternity already had passed. Albus had bee so _clean_, and he such a dirty mess. He had reeked, he knew, but that hadn't stopped the older man from kneeling down next to him, from his huddled position in a corner of the room.

There had been a desperate quality in the old man's eyes as they spoke, and it was only later that Severus had realized what it was – a desperation to save _somebody_, that _one_ of them might be redeemed. He had lost so much already – so many of his students turning down such a dark path.

In those first few years after Azkaban, Severus liked to think they had grown to know one another – that he had grown to know Albus Dumbledore. Much of the man's past was still a mystery, but it wasn't his past Severus had been most interested in, but rather the inner workings of the man's mind. And though he didn't truly understand Albus – nobody did, he was sure – he had come to know him well enough.

Well enough to know that this wasn't like him.

Albus Dumbledore's greatest flaw was that he cared – perhaps a bit too much. He could get lost in the big picture sometimes, but he had never let anybody be intentionally hurt, not if he could stop it. Sometimes, he just had to be reminded of the _people_ involved – Severus had done that, on more than one occasion over the years.

Sighing, Severus sat on his bed, elbows of his knees and head in his hands as he stared at the floor, not really seeing it. His fingers were buried deep in his hair, and he made a slight face at the greasy quality. _Stupid potions fumes …_

He needed a shower.

_Potter could probably use one, too._ But he wasn't about to go wake up the boy just for that – he could demand one in the morning, if the boy still looked as ragged as he had earlier. Perhaps a full night's sleep would do him some good.

Later, as he towel dried his hair, now free of the potions fumes that were part and parcel of his chosen profession, Severus wondered just how good of a rest Potter was likely to get. Though their Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers as of late had been shoddy at best, his own education had been far better when _he_ was a student. They had still gone through teachers at an alarming rate, but at least those had been competent, and had lasted the entire school year.

A far sight better than some of the charlatans that Albus had been finding as of late.

His lessons from those years were coming back to him now, however – particularly those having to do with Werewolves. The process of _becoming_ a werewolf was a particularly brutal one, and he could only imagine the pain the boy must have been in. That his relatives had not taken him to a doctor was suspect, but in the end he was thankful. Albus was right – if the media had gotten a hold of this … it would be a disaster.

But it was the time after the attack that was, perhaps, the worst of all. If the victim survived the attack, there was still no telling if they would survive those first couple of weeks, when weakness wracked the body, pain lancing through it as it attempted to adjust to the foreign entity now taking up residence within it.

The full moon had been – what? Three days ago? Hardly long enough for the boy to come to a full realization of just _what_ had happened, and how it had changed his life. The wounds would have healed – the first of the gifts of a werewolf was also the one that generally allowed one to survive the attack. But it would help with the coming pain, nor the sickness that would overcome Potter's body soon.

Things were about to get a lot worse, before they got better. _If they got better._

Harry's dreams were fitful that night, and he found himself waking often. He had always been a light sleeper, ever since he was a small child. Dudley didn't discriminate when he would begin 'Harry Hunting', and if Harry wasn't awake … well, it made him an easy target.

Still, it had never been as bad as all this.

The cot was comfortable – more so than his bed back in Surrey. The blankets had been warm and thick, though the room hadn't really been _that_ cold. No, he had been comfortable. He had been safe. He just _couldn't sleep_. He didn't know what it was, but it had been _bloody annoying_.

He wasn't sure what time he woke that morning, only that a heavy knock on the door jarred him from a light sleep. He didn't remember dreaming, at least, so that was _something_ to be thankful for. His dreams as of late had been … _violent_.

Throwing the blankets from his body, Harry rolled in to a sitting position. "Come in." He called, voice roughened from sleep, and wasn't surprised when Snape entered a moment later, though when he stepped to the side to allow somebody else to enter behind him, Harry sat up a bit straighter.

Remus Lupin stood framed in the doorway. His brown hair was a bit longer, the mustache that Harry had secretly thought didn't really fit the man shaved off. His face was just as angular, just as devoid of any extra fat. Gray eyes met Harry's straight on, and Harry nearly winced at the pity he saw there.

"I'll leave you, then. You've been excused from classes for the day, Potter." Snape nodded his head once to each of them, before sweeping from the room once again. A moment later the door leading out in to the dungeons – and the rest of Hogwarts – closed with a soft thud, and Harry swallowed thickly as he stood to his feet.

"Professor."

"Harry, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Remus?" The reprimand was so normal that Harry almost laughed, but he caught himself in time, too afraid it would turn in to a sob.

This was not the first time Remus Lupin had been called upon to visit a recently turned Werewolf since he had been officially outed by Severus Snape. It was the first time, however, that he had been called upon to do so at Hogwarts.

It had not been easier, before – it was never easy to explain to a child, or even to an adult, that they would never be equals with those around them, that they would forever be viewed as 'less' … that they could never see their dreams come true. Not like they might have befot re. But, at least then he had had the veil of anonymity. He had not known the newly minted Werewolf, and he was only now coming to realize how much that had helped.

But this was so much harder. Perhaps if it had been any other child – any other student – it would not have been quite so difficult. But it was _Harry_. He had held this child in his arms, had fed him under Lily's careful direction. What other mother would let a werewolf so close to their newborn baby? But Lily had, though James had seemed a tad bit uncertain as Lily had lain the child in his arm, had taught him how to support the newborn babes' head.

Part of it had been a desperation on her part to find somebody who could watch the babe, so that she might have a few moments to herself, he knew. Out of all their friends, he had always been the most responsible. He had never really cared for the reason, however – only cared that he was being trusted with this child, so pure and untainted.

But he _was_ tainted now, wasn't he? Tained just liked Remus had been since childhood. The only saving grace, Remus knew, was that the boy had some time, at least – had friends who would see him through this.

Remus sighed softly, entering further into the small work room Severus Snape had shown him to. Why it was Snape, and not McGonnogal, he wasn't quite sure, but he was thankful that Harry had been given privacy, at least.

"At least once more," Harry quipped, though from the look in his eyes Remus could tell it was more an automatic reaction than anything else.

"Come on, I'll make us some breakfast." Remus smiled sadly as Harry nodded, waiting for a moment to see the boy start to move before he retreated back into the rest of the rooms.

Snape had comfortable rooms, he had to give the man that. And not dominated by Slytherin colors – that had surprised the former Gryffindor. Still, he was thankful for the fire already crackling merrily away, and the small kitchen in which to prepare a simple meal for the two of them. House Elves were all well and good, but the food they prepared never quite managed to have the feeling of home that came from a meal prepared on the spot like this.

When Harry emerged several minutes later, Remus had a cup of tea waiting, as well as a simple breakfast of fruit and oatmeal. The teenager wouldn't be able to handle much more, he knew.

"Harry … " Remus paused, realizing with a start that the first words out of his mouth were going to be a reprimand. And as much as he wished he could sugar coat it, he realized that _that_ was the way it would have to be.

Once the teenager had taken a seat, green eyes watching him warily, Remus settled down close by, leaning forward and clasping his hands between his knees. "Harry, why did you wait so long before telling somebody?"

The reprimand seemed to come as a surprise, as Harry jerked back as if he had been struck. He had been expecting sympathy, Remus knew, perhaps even pity. Not to be reprimanded like this.

But it had to be said.

"You put peoples' lives in danger, Harry, and you _need_ to understand that." Remus hated doing this – he really did. But the boy needed to _understand_ that this wasn't just about him – not anymore. Decisions like these … they put people in danger. Before, it might have been acceptable. But not anymore.

Harry's back was ramrod straight now, and his eyes seemed to stare right through Remus. The former Defense professor sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing a hand across his forehead, eying the teen. They stayed in that position for a moment, before Remus straightened with a sigh.

"Harry." Remus reached forward, grasping the teen's hands in his. Harry instantly balked, attempting to pull his hands out of the older man's grasp, but Remus simply tightened his grip. "I know this is hard. I know you just want to ignore it, wish it away. But you can't, just like I couldn't."

That gave the teen pause, and Harry finally met his eyes. Remus smiled sadly, fingers tightening around the youth's for a moment before he withdrew, leaning back in his seat once again with a sigh.

"The full moon isn't for nearly another month." Remus commented, almost conversationally, watching as the teen winced. "Professor Snape will brew the Wolfsbane Potion, and you will be able to remain within the castle … under lock and key, of course." Precautions always had to be taken, no matter that they kept their minds during the transformation now. "You're lucky, you know. Most cannot afford the exorbiant prices that come with such an advanced potion."

Technically, neither could he. Oh, the Potter fortune would sustain Harry indefinately, he knew. But as for the rest of them … as a werewolf, honest jobs were hard to come by, which made the price of Wolfsbane a far off dream for most. It was only his connection with Albus Dumbledore that allowed him this privelage. He was forever indebted to the older man … and they both knew it.

"It won't stop the transformation, though." Remus was jerked back to the present by Harry's comment, and he sighed.

"No, it won't stop it. But it _will_ let you keep your mind, and stop you from harming anybody." There was a sharpness to his tone as he said this last bit, and Harry nodded, slumping back in his seat.

"It's going to hurt, though."

Oh, how he wished he could assuage the boy's fears in that regard. Remus wished he could tell the teen that the potion would take care of that, too. But he couldn't.

"There are some potions you could take, to help ease the pain of the transformation. But it will still hurt." And thank god the Wolfsbane didn't interfere with pain potions; the pain of each and every transformation would have been excruciating, if not for that slight reprieve – small as it was.

The room was silent for a moment, Harry lost in his thoughts. Remus let him think, taking the time instead to eye the boy. He had seen more than one succumb to the despair that came with becoming what they were – seen more than one give in to it. How many had taken their own lives because of it? How many more _would_, in the days and years to come? He had considered it himself, once upon a time, and every once in a while the thought still crossed his mind.

But no, he wouldn't. He couldn't, not when there were those who still cared for him. Not when he might still help those such as the boy before him.

Remus sighed, standing to his feet and moving to stand before the fire, his own cup of tea held firmly in his hands. He was suddenly anxious, wishing he could do something – _anything_ – more than just sit here. He wanted to be moving, acting, doing _something_.

He could feel Harry's eyes on him, and he smiled slightly before turning to face the teen. The smile was more than a bit forced, and some of that must have shown through, if the look on Harry's face was anything to go by. Remus gave another sigh, tightening his grip on his tea cup.

"How are you, Harry? Really?"

Harry hesitated, eying the worn out expression on the other man's face. He had never been particularly close to his former Defense professor, though he _had_ been closer to him than many of the adults in his life.

He knew the man had once been close to his parents. Did he feel a sense of obligation, perhaps, to the friends he had buried all those years ago? For some reason, that made his sudden interest, his compassion, easier to handle. Easier to _understand_.

Nobody did anything simply because it was _the right thing to do_. His whole life, he had understood this. Harry honestly couldn't remember a time when a good deed, a kind word, hadn't been followed by some sort of expectation. So whenever one was offered, he was expectant – ready. What would be the price this time? What had brought it on?

That Remus Lupin, a man whom he had known only as a professor and friend to his godfather, to look at him with such compassion … it was unnerving. But the man didn't pity him; he could see that clearly. Pity he would have balked at, as tired and worn out as he was. He felt … thin. Stretched, like he was being pulled in too many directions at once.

But he couldn't say that to the man, could he? "Fine." Harry shrugged after a moment's pause, sinking back into his seat.

The former Hogwarts graduate sighed, rubbing the index and middle fingers of his right hand across the area between his eyes, lips pursed tightly. Harry knew that look – though not perhaps that particular stance. Exasperation – he had seen it on his aunts' face often enough.

"You're feeling weak, I take it?" Harry started guiltily at being caught in his lie, before nodding, eying the man uneasily. Of course Professor Lupin would know _exactly_ how he felt – the man had been through it all before, hadn't he?

"It will pass." The other man straightened in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he eyed the teen across from him. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fingers curling into themselves in his lap. "The curse … needs time. Like acclimating yourself to a new enviorment, the curse itself is feeling out it's boundaries, becoming accustomed to your body. The human body is intricate, Harry."

Once again, the older man leaned forward, almost as though he were beseeching the young man. "It works in a delicate balance, each part doing a carefully planned out job. The balance that exists therein – I won't get too technical, I promise, but … it has been disrupted, by the addition of a new _player_, one might say. It isn't a virus, and your body won't react _against_ it, won't try to expel it, but … it needs time to find that harmony, that balance once again."

Harry nodded, showing he understood, eyes downcast. "Come on, drink your tea." Professor Lupin leaned back with a sigh, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "It will warm you up … it's freezing in these dungeons."

"_Keep him with you for the night, Severus. You said he did not seem injured?" Albus Dumbledore eyed him, and Severus shook his head. The lie came easily – small compared to some of the others he had been forced to tell in the First War. But the boy's pain had nothing to do with his condition – and Severus understood the boy's need to keep such things to himself._

"_Alright. I suppose it's best not to move him … the less people know, the better. I will deal with his friends … you know how curious Minerva's lot can be." This was said with a smile, but Severus merely gave an annoyed grunt in response. Oh, their curiosity was well-known to him. As was their penchant for causing trouble._

"_And in the morning?"_

"_I'll send for Remus Lupin … Let the boy sleep in. I shall inform Minerva he will not be in classes."_

_Severus nodded, before sweeping from the room._


End file.
